


blood of the martyrs

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [18]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, M/M, but also fluff, did i mention there would be violence, like a lot of violence, mentions of suicide and suicidal intent, pls don't hate me, violence for this part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fate has an awful sense of humour, but he knew that already.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or, the one where Cosette comes back</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood of the martyrs

**Author's Note:**

> see the tags for warnings (though it is mainly the same warnings that have followed a lot of the previous parts - nothing more explicit than what has already happened)

 

“I feel awfully lied to,” Jehan tells the ghosts sitting around him. One of them is his mother. He stares at her: only her.

The rest are not faces he wishes to see.

“Jehan,” Anne says, “Jehan, I’m really sorry.”

“I know you are,” he says: he’s still only looking at the thing taking his mother’s shape. “I’m not so sure Michael is.”

“No,” it is still Anne who answers, as if whatever the thing is can only speak through her. Or only wishes to speak through her. “But what Javert did was dangerous and… and unprecedented. No-one’s ever been able to escape before.”

“ _Escape,”_ Jehan looks down at his hands now: he is afraid of taking his eyes off the other ghost ( _Michael)_ , but he is also afraid of meeting its gaze, of seeing what’s in there. Gazing into the abyss, so to speak.

“You make it sound like death is a prison.”

“Isn’t it?” Anne whispers. “Isn’t the opportunity to come back a better alternative than nothing but darkness, until the end of time?”

Jehan looks up; his mother’s ghost is gone now. Michael is gone.

“I don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”

“I’m asking you to talk to your friends,” Anne says. “I’m asking you to talk to _my son_. And if they will not kill Javert, at least let him tell you his secrets.”

 _At least make sure he can come back_ , he heard her unspoken plea.

“You still lied to me,” he shifts, crosses his arms over his chest. “You said Javert had killed you and your husband, my friend’s _parents_ , in some hope that I would go on a futile manhunt for him or something. You wanted to end him.”

“ _Michael_ wanted to end him,” Anne’s tone is insistent. “I’ve apologised for that, his hold over me is too strong. But I am here now, to tell you that you have more choices. You do. Please.”

Maybe this is his test, Jehan wonders. Maybe this and not the earlier encounter.

Maybe he is taking all of the tests for his friends. It is a frightening thought.

It stops being frightening when he realises he would gladly do it if it meant none of his friends had to go through it.

“Get the hell away from me,” he tells her, and the ghosts disappear.

 

 

*

 

 

Grantaire is half-way to sleep when Enjolras asks his question.

It has been evident from the moment they laid down that Enjolras wasn’t going to sleep, even though it was the middle of the night and they were in sleep-wear and whatnot (which, for Enjolras, meant boxers and a _Star Trek_ t-shirt that Grantaire was pretty sure he’d stolen from Courfeyrac, and for Grantaire, well… nothing), it was not uncommon that Enjolras would spend the time it took Grantaire to fall asleep thinking and playing with the other man’s hair, instead of joining in on the fun sleepy-times.

It’s okay. It’s part of the… odd routine they’ve cultivated during these last weeks. It hadn’t even occurred to Grantaire to think about it; perhaps because notions like these are ones he has never truly let himself entertain. It was too dangerous. Too raw. So it is unexpected, when it happens, when it’s falling asleep and waking up in each other’s arms, when its Enjolras breaking the coffee-machine again, when its Grantaire making a phone-call with Enjolras fast asleep, head in his lap, because clearly night is not for sleeping and Grantaire makes a much more comfortable pillow than, you know, his actual pillows.

The point is that they click into place in a way that Grantaire would have laughed at before; laughed at because people who were domestic like that were amusing, laughed at it because he envied people who managed to hold onto good things in this way, laughed like that because he would never, ever, not in a million years, get that with the one person he’d want it with.

Sometimes he wonders if Enjolras is careful with this: with the damn PDA, small and innocent touching that it is. He’d never expected Enjolras of all people to be someone to do that. And it gets worse when they’re alone. They’re always touching, practically. And Enjolras is doing much of the clinging: Grantaire can’t really say that he blames him, what with all the frights he’s given his boyfriend these last few months. It’s probably an unhealthy self-preservation method, thinking that he can keep Grantaire safe if he can keep him close, or maybe it’s just easier to believe that he already is safe, if he’s real and solid beneath his hands.

And Grantaire is certainly not going to complain: not one bit.

The best time is still the night though. It’s still when, even though Enjolras is clearly not about to sleep, ready as he is for it, he is still completely relaxed, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling: and holding Grantaire, who is slipping slowly back into sleep.

He is, in fact, half-way to sleep, when Enjolras asks his question.

“When did you fall in love with me?”

He is completely awake immediately.

“Excuse me?!

He almost wants to look up, in shock, or perhaps he wants to hide, curl under the blankets until Enjolras forgets about his question.

The other man places a light kiss on top of his head: Grantaire doesn’t move.

“When did you fall in love with me?” he repeats, and Grantaire’s palms feel sweaty and his heart is beating up a thunder-storm, oh god.

“I…”

“I’m just curious,” Enjolras’ voice is soothing, his hand in Grantaire’s hair even more so.

Grantaire realises, perhaps belatedly, that he really doesn’t want to have this conversation. But he suddenly finds that he has to answer, he just has to.

“In this life or the one before?” he asks, because this has become a normal question. This is an actual sensible question to ask, now. Dear lord. When ever did he become sensible?

“Hmmm,” Enjolras hums, almost, pondering it, as if the lives have blended together as much for him as they have for Grantaire, and it takes time to separate them. That thought scares him: it scares him that the lines between a passionate soul in the Nineteenth century, and one in the Twenty-first are blending together to this degree. It scares him that one day, Enjolras might not be able to tell one from the other, and courting death will be like rousing a crowd, next to nothing for a man like him. It already is. The possibility that it will get… worse is not the right word, but perhaps like a shadow, trailing loyally behind him instead of a mere distant thought, frightens him.

It is not that he thinks Enjolras to be someone who will be unable to cope, or is too unintelligent to see the difference between then and now – and even with this goddamn war on, there is a difference, and the differences are as important as the warm breath currently hitting his skin, as everyone who shouldn’t be safe and sound. They are as important as the similarities.

Grantaire finds it harder and harder to cling to them.

And he fears that it is the same for Enjolras.

There is a lot of things Grantaire knows about himself, and possibly, he’ll admit, a lot of things he doesn’t. One thing he does know, is that he won’t be able to handle losing Enjolras in the same way that he lost him last time.

He’ll do anything to prevent that.

“I’m not sure,” he finally answers, truthfully, when Enjolras fails to elaborate on his question. “For either life. I… I guess I always sort of was.”

“What, like love at first sight?” Enjolras teases, though his voice is gentle enough that it does not come as a jab.

 _Before then_ , Grantaire thinks. _I loved you before I knew you._

He can’t remember not loving Enjolras. He has childhood memories, stock-piles of them now, rising high, he has adolescence and heartbreak and people pushing him away, only few hands moving to cling and comfort instead of hurt and push. He remembers peering into a giant casket of fireworks, courtesy of his aunt. The casket was not big, but he was small enough that he had to stand on his tip-toes to look into it. He remembers feeding ducks in the park with a small girl and a smaller boy only just learning to walk, their eldest sister lost somewhere back home, hiding bruises with make-up.

 _“Enjolras is his name,”_ Jehan had said, in another life. _“He is our… ah, I guess you could say leader, in a sense. He is one of my dearest friends. You may have seen him, around.”_

_“I have not.”_

He can remember a life without Enjolras in it. He cannot remember not loving him – he cannot remember that feeling being absent, can’t remember the absence not even being realised.

 _“You still haven’t met Enjolras, have you?”_ Eponine had talked about Marius that day. And then she’d talked about the others.

_“I still haven’t met who?”_

_“Enjolras. Trust me. You’d remember if you had met him.”_

“That’s not an answer,” Enjolras’ tone is still light and teasing, and it returns Grantaire to the waking world like sunlight does to the sleeper.

“I’m sorry,” he says, only a little regretfully. “I just… I don’t think I ever had a startling revelation, or anything like that. It just happened. I met you and I loved you,” _I loved you, and then I met you, and I loved you more._ He hesitates, before he adds. “And I’ve loved you since.”

_I wonder if we loved each other in death._

“You’re being awfully dramatic,” Enjolras shifts a little, until they can look at each other. Grantaire frowns.

“Am I?”

“That’s usually my thing, isn’t it?” he fingers skip over the lines on Grantaire’s face, and he is not sure which of them smiles first, but he is sure that whoever it is prompts the other to return it. He feels a little lighter, now. Thoughts of his own sad existence are easier to deal with than thoughts of Enjolras’ demise.

Of course they are.

“Have you been in love before?” Enjolras asks then, and the question takes Grantaire so much by surprise, he thinks if he was standing up he would have fallen down.

“What?!”

“I mean, before me.”

“I’m…”

“You don’t have to answer,” Enjolras hurriedly says. “I mean, it’s not like I’d like a list of everyone you’ve been with, or everyone who’s flirted with you, or…”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire whispers, his voice barely audible, yet still loud enough to shut Enjolras right up: and then he bursts into laughter. “ _Oh my fucking god, you want a list!”_

“I just said I don’t!” Enjolras mutters, staring very decidedly up at the ceiling.

“Are you actually _jealous_?”

“No!” Enjolras says, so fast it can be nothing but a lie, and even in the dim of night, Grantaire can see him blushing.

Oh, some deity or other help him, he _can’t stop laughing._

Even when Enjolras starts scowling.

Okay, maybe when Enjolras starts scowling.

“Sorry, sorry,” he hiccups as he tries to hold back the giggling, and that at least makes Enjolras crack a small smile.

“No, I’m… you’re right,” Enjolras says then, the words possibly like a knife to the kidney or something, dear lord. “I was… I am a little bit… jealous. Not in a… I just… I feel foolish. I feel like I’ve… wasted a lot of time.”

Grantaire sobers. “You didn’t even know me.”

“That doesn’t feel like an excuse.”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “You’re speaking as if there isn’t a lot of time left.”

Enjolras says nothing, and Grantaire can feel them hovering on the edge of an explosion: it is odd, as if they’re deciding which wire to cut together, instead of one of them just diving ahead and making a mess of it all right away.

Usually he’s the one. Usually he’s so very colour blind.

“As I said,” Enjolras is the one to break the tentative silence. “I’m being foolish.”

Grantaire smiles: it comes easier than he expected it. “I think it is almost cute.”

Enjolras blows out a puff of air in annoyance. “It’s _frustrating_ , Grantaire.”

“Oooh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s really, really, _really_ frustrating walking around and constantly thinking about one single person.”

“I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

“It’s really frustrating when you want to know everything about their day, when you worry about the smallest things, when you… Grantaire, _stop laughing at me!”_

“No I won’t,” he gets out, though the laughter does fade away. “I just realised that you’re right, you are a complete fool.”

“I’m so glad we agree on something.”

“It’s probably a good thing.”

“A milestone in our relationship.”

Grantaire snickers. “The end of an era.”

“New times ahead.”

“Good times I hope,” Grantaire whispers, and this time it is so quiet that Enjolras doesn’t hear.

 

 

*

 

 

“What about you?”

“Excuse me?”

Grantaire grins at the confused look over the top of the newspaper: Enjolras is backlit by the sun, sitting in the living-room like this. He looks beautiful, and ruffled after last night, his wild curls in disarray. He looks delightfully human.

“I said: ‘what about you?’ Last night you asked me if I’ve been in love before.”

Enjolras blinks a few times more before the question seems to make sense.

“Oh! Oh, right,” he mutters. “Um, well, no. Is that a surprise?”

“Definitely not!”

“ _Hey!”_

Grantaire laughs. “You’re too easy to tease.”

“The closest I’ve possibly gotten to any kind of romantic relations,” Enjolras muses. “Was Marïe, in kindergarten. She tried to kiss me. I threw sand at her. And cried.”

He’s laughing so much he can hardly breathe now. “You _didn’t!”_

“I got quite a scolding from the adults in the place.”

“I can imagine!”

“And Courfeyrac has kissed me quite a few times,” Enjolras says, pondering. “And, ah, my first real kiss was with Combeferre. Because… well…” he stumbles over his words suddenly.

“Because you and him wanted to see if there was something there,” Grantaire says. “Combeferre actually told me that.”

“He did?” Enjolras looks surprised. Not hurt though.

“We were just talking,” Grantaire says, not defensively. “Anyway, don’t think you can make me jealous. Courfeyrac has kissed everyone. And Combeferre is quite the kisser, so I can’t begrudge you that, really.”

“Well, he… _wait,_ you’ve kissed Combeferre?” Enjolras sounds too shocked to be anything else, and Grantaire almost wants to laugh again, except he is remembering the circumstances now, the memories coming to the forefront of his mind like thorned vines, reaching up and grasping hold,

“Yes it… was a long time ago,” he says, and hopes that Enjolras understands. Maybe he does: it doesn’t stop him from looking at Grantaire like he expects him to continue.

“I didn’t exactly cope well when you first… when it first became apparent that… you were dying,” he says the last words in a rush, fingers gripping at each other tightly: his hands are white. He doesn’t know what to do with them. “That you were going to die. In the whole… fight against the government-thing you had going on.”

“And Combeferre helped.”

Grantaire smiles, slightly. “You know Combeferre. He always helps. Even if just a little bit.”

Enjolras is silent for a little while, and the heavy weight of… of _everything_ comes back, bearing down on his shoulder. It fills the air between them.

“Did I ever… have I ever… _helped?”_

Grantaire can’t figure out Enjolras’ tone of voice when he says that: he doesn’t know if it’s apologetic (because he thinks he knows the answer) or worried, curious or hopeful.

He sounds… hesitant, to ask in the first place. Grantaire remembers his mother once telling him that if he wasn’t sure of the question, he shouldn’t ask.

He’d told her that if he didn’t ask, he’d never get anything told. As if people were going to answer you, just like that.

He’d been naïve once too.

“You’re not responsible for me, Enjolras,” Grantaire tells him, and sounds more severe than he means to, but Enjolras does not flinch away from it.

“I don’t mind,” his voice is unmistakably gentle now, and Grantaire finds himself scowling.

“I don’t need coddling,” he tells him, frustration boiling. “I’m not fucking helpless.”

“I think that’s the most positive thing I’ve ever heard you say about yourself,” it is Enjolras turn to snap it seems. Grantaire cringes, and immediately feels like he’s lost, even as Enjolras’ eyes soften.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says then, slowly. “I’m sorry.”

He wouldn’t say that if he wasn’t so keen on keeping the peace between them, Grantaire knows this. They’d be fighting and at each other’s throat, if Enjolras wasn’t so… so _scared_ right now. He hates it, he truly does. He hates that the other man feels like this, that Enjolras is being nice to him because he does not want their last moments to be filled with angry words and hurts and old wounds ripped open.

Because he thinks they are going to die soon.

He’s been through a lot of things. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever been this terrified before.

He wants to start an argument. He wants to tear and bite, and watch little pieces of them chip away slowly, because that’s how they do things, it’s how they roll, for actual hundreds of years this is how they’ve done it, and it’s only been a few months since Enjolras decided to upend the boardgame, turn it on his head and replace all the sharp edged pieces with light touches and fervent kisses in the night, and it’s not even happening that fast, Grantaire has had time, he should be getting his head around this, he should be alright.

He has literally everything he has ever wanted, and all he can think about is Enjolras dying.

“I’m not asking because I want to take responsibility for… for everything,” Enjolras continues, then, and his voice is warm and soft and _alive_ , and Grantaire needs to remember that. “I’m asking because I still feel guilty.”

“You don’t have anything to feel guilty for.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, quickly, sharply. “I know, but things don’t work like that. I still feel guilty.”

“I don’t blame you,” Grantaire lifts his head. “I never could.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Enjolras says, and catches his eyes and keeps them locked there.

He doesn’t know what to say to Enjolras. He’s never been a reassuring person, anyone could tell him that. It’s another thing on a remarkably long list of everything about him that Enjolras seems to see, but he never does.

He wonders which one of them is the most blind. He wonders how they’ve even found their way, fumbling in the dark like this.

“You worry too much,” he says then, because it is easier to follow Enjolras’ lead, at least right now, so he gets up from his chair and ignores the relieved expression on the other man’s face when he walks over and sits on his lap.

“Hello,” he forces himself to forget about the earlier conversation, and it seems like Enjolras does the same.

“Hi,” Enjolras’ smile is wide and beautiful and all for him: forgetting comes even easier.

He has always been so good at forgetting.

 _(he’s really not, unless someone else takes his memories, steals them like they’re apples from your neighbours tree, hanging with the sunlight glinting through, because forgetting would mean_ forgetting _and you cannot hate yourself if you forget everything you have done)_

_(not that the hating doesn’t come fine without the memories)_

_(the memories came later)_

_(the memories came first)_

 

 

*

 

 

“You are so not shaving me _every single time_ , Enjolras.”

“But it’s fun!”

“There is something so wrong with you.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Nooo, get away from me!”

“If you want me to get away from me, why are you pulling me closer?”

“You dropped the razor.”

“It’s a good thing I have a spare in my back-pocket.”

“As if you… _Enjolras!”_

“Please?”

“You are impossible.”

 

 

*

 

 

Eponine falls into his arms and stays there.

“Are you _drunk?”_ Grantaire asks in bewilderment. She blinks up at him.

“Do you remember Carmilla?” she asks, completely ignoring his own question, which, rude.

“Yes,” he replies, matter-of-factly, guiding them both down to sit on the lower bar-stools.

“She was very cute, wasn’t she? And a good kisser.” Eponine reaches for the beer on the counter and manages to knock it over: her speech is not overtly slurred, but she has always been good at faking herself more sober than she actually is. “We should have had a three-some.”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire mumbles.

“Why _didn’t_ we have a three-some?”

“Because you’re practically my sister, and quite frankly, ew.”

She grins at him, broadly and leans forward to place a short kiss on his lips, which he allows because she’s _smiling_ , widely and without restraint, something he hasn’t seen from her in years.

He wonders how she is not as terrified as he is.

He wonders if she, like him, had created this unspoken rule of… being left out. Not left out. That is not the correct term: he is most certainly not left out of the meetings and the desperate, dangerous planning around all of this.

But he chooses to stay slightly outside, waiting with baited breath, and his friends, for some reason, doesn’t seem to begrudge him that.

Possibly because of the trauma. He’s been through some shit.

But they’ve all been through some shit, and that is really not an excuse.

He wonders if he has to suddenly adjust his world-view and accept the idea that they actually do all love him.

(he might be a little drunk as well right now)

“Jehan’s been looking for you,” she says then, apparently at random. “I think he possibly really wants to hug you, or punch you in the face, it’s hard to tell.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes at her. “It’s hard to tell because you’re _drunk_.”

She scoffs at him. “ _Please_.”

“Are you…” he stops himself, reaches out to tuck a way-ward strand of her hair back into its pony-tail. “Do you ever worry?” he finally makes himself ask.

She takes a sip of the beer. “Worrying is for the weak,” she tells him, and Grantaire has known her long enough to know that that means _yes._

“Just as well,” he mumbles. “We can be body-shields for the others when the time comes.”

“I won’t be anybody’s fucking body-shield,” she hisses, and her eyes are warning him to try and save her, or something ridiculous like that.

He thinks of a girl dying in the rain, and desperately wants to.

“Sorry.”

“Getting shot hurts like a fucker.”

“Yep, I know.”

“I am definitely not doing that again.”

“Lots of other ways to die.”

Eponine nods gravely. “Used as shark-bait.”

“Tornadoes.”

“Lightning-strike.”

“You know, all of those might actually happen if we get reincarnated again. And again. And again.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and then clinks her bottle together with his in a gesture that is vaguely like acknowledgement. “Torn apart by wolves.”

“Torn apart by bears.”

“Oh, come on. _Wolves.”_

“Do you know what we need to do,” Grantaire says after finishing his beer. “We need to find Montparnasse.”

“We need to ask him what hurts most, getting shot or getting stabbed,” Eponine agrees, and Grantaire can’t help but laugh.

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Jehan appears at his side like a genie out of a bottle, and if he was the kind of person to jump up in fright, Grantaire so would have.

Instead he just lets out a very manly shriek.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” he mumbles, at the same time Eponine bluntly answers _‘death_ ’ and then lets loose a series of giggles that threatens to undo her completely.

Jehan quirks an eyebrow. “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine,” Grantaire mutters, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “She gets like that.”

“Grantaire, can I talk to you? In private?”

He agrees, tells Eponine not to go on any adventures without him, and follows Jehan: the other man goes outside, which is a bit annoying because its pouring down (summer has yet to hit, and they’re all waiting with impatient breath for it now, tired of the cold and the rain), but they turn down an alley-way and Jehan unlocks the door to Bahorel’s flat.

“There’s someone you need to meet,” Jehan says before Grantaire realises the question was even on the tip of his tongue.

He steps in behind him, scanning the room.

“There’s no-one here.”

Jehan’s smile is sad, and he hates to see it.

“It’s just your mother,” he says then, and Grantaire feels as if the floor is giving away under him (again). “She just… wanted to say hi.”

Jehan doesn’t lie.

_(sometimes he leaves things out, though)_

 

 

*

 

 

Enjolras is, wonders of wonders, asleep when Grantaire returns, so late it can be called early: an orange and pink glow is heralding the sun as it slowly rises, and Grantaire prepares to do the opposite, crawling into bed beside his boyfriend.

He tries to be quiet, but he still feels uncoordinated and clumsy, and not from the drink either, and Enjolras’ eyes blink open slowly, turning around to face him. He’s groggy and his hair is wild over the pillow behind him, but his teeth gleam a stark white when he sees Grantaire there.

“Hi,” he says, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Hello,” Grantaire mutters back, quickly pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s okay,” he checks the clock and smiles slowly. “It is rather time for me to get up, anyway.”

Grantaire stills. “Stay,” he whispers, the word appearing of its own accord: he had not summoned it. He doesn’t want to beg.

He does, anyway.

It doesn’t take much though, because Enjolras is still warm from sleep, and now apparently intent on warming up Grantaire as well, not to mention using him as a pillow. It’s nice. It’s surreal.

As always.

“Where were you?” Enjolras asks, eyes closing, already drifting back to the world of the sleeping.

“Just out. With ‘Ponine,” he mumbles, and feels like he’s lying. “And Jehan.” Not better. The words left out become a lump in his throat.

He knows what will happen next, the next words to jump out without a warning-tag or a safe-guard, his brain not giving the order because apparently he is no longer in control of anything he says.

“What do you think happens when we die?” Grantaire mumbles then. “I mean… isn’t it odd that we don’t remember anything? We were dead for centuries before we… came back.”

Enjolras is quiet for a little while, though the hand stroking up and down Grantaire’s arms is a clear sign that he is still awake. He is impatient for some kind of answer, but his question had not been a light one: Enjolras will need time to think on it.

“What’s brought this on?” he finally asks, and Grantaire lets out a dissatisfied huff.

“Please just answer?”

“You’re going to call me a sentimental fool,” Enjolras says then, and Grantaire is surprised: he does have an answer. He’s simply too afraid to speak.

“Does that matter?” he inquires.

“Everything you say matters.”

“Stop that,” he is begging again.

“It wasn’t bad,” Enjolras says then, and his voice is steadfast, sure. He _knows_ this. “Being dead is not bad, Grantaire. It was not bad, because we had each other. Do you understand? We had each other. I will never leave you, not for as long as you still want me around.”

Jehan never lies, Grantaire knows: or at least, Jehan never lies _to him_. They have been friends for long enough that there is no need for lies. Omissions yes. They don’t tell each other everything – some things are private.

But there was no lie in Jehan’s voice when he spoke to Grantaire of tests and deceit and never knowing which one was the worst, Ana-Maria or Michael, and the pull, from both of them, the fright and danger at this new shadowy figure taking a place as well, and _how many more were there?_ And what would they do to him when they found out what he could do?

 _What will they do to Javert,_ Jehan had asked. _To Montparnasse. When they figure out what they can do._

Jehan had been honest, and he had known the truth.

Enjolras is a different case.

Enjolras, Grantaire thinks, realises, knows, loves him enough to lie to him.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. As long as you promise we’ll be together.”

“I promise.”

Enjolras is a liar, but Grantaire loves him anyway.

 

 

*

 

“We are not getting a cat.”

“Oh, please. C’mon.”

“You know cats and I don’t get along.”

“Yes, Courfeyrac explained about the sofa-incident. But it would just really liven the place up to have a pet, don’t you think?”

“Fish then. We can have fish.”

“We are not getting fish, Enjolras!”

“A turtle then.”

“…”

“You can name it, it doesn’t have to be…”

“… No.”

“We’re not getting a cat.”

“You are so cruel.”

“It would be cruel to put me in the same room as a cat!”

“Or a turtle, to be honest.”

“I am not that bad!”

“You named it Robespierre – that’s worse than accidentally killing it.”

“ _Accidentally_ , I want to stress the _accidentally.”_

“Fine, I’m getting another tattoo instead then.”

“As long as it’s not depicting a cat.”

“…”

“… Grantaire.”

“Only kidding.”

 

 

*

 

 

“I love you,” Enjolras tells him into the long hours of the night, when the moon is behind large clouds and helps to hide them away in the shadows.

Summer hits on the day Cosette comes back.

“It’s you,” she tells him, sitting in his kitchen and drinking Jasmine tea. “You’re the one she brought back.”

“Oh joy,” Grantaire says, and he knows that he’s gone pale and his hands are shaking. He gets his phone out and sends a text anyway.

“You don’t believe me,” Cosette says, frowning at him.

“Of course I don’t,” he can’t help but snap at her, just a little. “Cosette, of course it’s not fucking me, it’s Enjolras or Courfeyrac or… fuck, it’s probably Jehan, he has those wild supernatural powers and he…”

“It’s not Jehan,” Cosette sounds apologetic, and he almost hates her for that. “It’s you Grantaire.”

“It’s not me.”

“Keep denying it all you want, it’s the truth,” she bites the next words out, and there’s a dangerous edge to her tone. “You’re the one Ana-Maria chose, you’re the one she wanted to bring back.”

“Why the fucking hell would she choose me?!” Why would _anyone?_

“She said… she said she’d met you. She said she liked you. And Ai said that it was possible.”

“They could both be saying anything!”

“Grantaire…”

“Why the fuck are we even trusting them?! We know next to nothing about Ai, and Ana-Maria is already someone I need to stay five thousand miles away from me, at the least.”

“Ai saved my life,” Cosette interrupts, her voice almost small now. “And yours, as well.”

“Is that what she told you? She could be the one to attack us. She could have been the one to kill Naveen.”

“I know you’re scared,” Cosette says, because she sees more than is healthy, and knows him better than he likes to think about.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I’m always fucking scared, Cosette.”

Her eyes are sad as she looks at him. “Yeah. Me too.”

The knock on the door interrupts them, and… Grantaire smiles.

“That would be your mother,” he tells her, and Cosette’s head whips up like a flash, the sun highlighting her like a halo, eyes big and round and…

He wonders how much she remembers of Fantine. He wonders how much Fantine truly remembers of her.

He leaves them alone to… catch up, and the sun makes the asphalt outside seem black like lava-stone, hot and molten, and he draws in a deep breath.

Grantaire is standing on an empty street in Paris, the sun shining mercilessly down, when he realises he is going to die.

Not today. But most likely tomorrow.

 

 

*

 

 

“I’ve always known I loved you.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Sorry.”

“No, please continue?”

“I’ve… I don’t remember when I started loving you, because I feel like I always have.”

“Oh.”

“Does that answer your question?”

“I suppose.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Yeah. It is.”

 

*

 

“I am not entirely sure the plan is going to work,” Myriel’s voice is soft and soothing, and Grantaire wishes that he could see the other man and not just talk with him through a static line on his battered old phone.

“You are only saying that because of the consequences,” he bites the words out. He is suddenly glad that Myriel cannot see him. “Which I’m quite willing to face.”

“Of course you are willing to face them,” Myriel sighs. “It’s the others that’ll be left to pick up the pieces when you’re gone.”

It had stayed with him, realising that Enjolras really loved him.

He wishes it hadn’t.

“I can’t just go up and negotiate with her,” Grantaire bites out. “But somehow, I am important. Really important. She’s got Fantine under her thumb, and somehow that cancels it out, doesn’t it? But she had all of her little minions in an uproar trying to get my memories back, and that has to mean something.”

“You and your friends are all very special, Grantaire,” Myriel agrees, if hesitantly.

“But I’m the one she fucking chose. Over actual heroes, she chose me.”

“… She did.”

“So I’m important. And she cannot just let Jethro or Michael kill me off. She’ll have to do something drastic then, and she’ll have to meet my terms if she wants my co-operation. And she can get my memories, she can get it all, if she lets the others go.”

“It will kill you.”

“I don’t care.”

He is shocked to realise that those last words are a lie.

He thinks of golden curls and an exasperated frown whenever fucking cats or turtles are mentioned, and he thinks of molten red _(lava, and rock, burning like the sun),_ and he’s had this epiphany before, had laid bleeding and crying because a confused, misused man had shot him, and he’d realised that he really doesn’t want to die.

“I have nothing but my life to offer,” he says. _Nothing I am willing to give._

He thinks of Enjolras.

He keeps hold of that thought.

“Make sure this gets a fucking hold of her,” Grantaire hisses. “She can even bring me back, if that’s what she wants, if she’s too late and they kill me. She can bring me back and then we’ll talk, and I’ll make sure she regrets it if she doesn’t meet my terms. Can you do that?”

There is silence: the old man must be pondering whether he can talk Grantaire out of it or not. Whether it is worth it.

Whether the plan will work or not.

“I will do it,” Myriel says, and Grantaire knows that he is going to die.

 

 

 

*

 

 

“You’re pretty difficult to find, considering,” Grantaire tells Montparnasse.

He’s very aware that he’s standing on the street where his friends were once shot and died, and isn’t that just ironic.

Fate has an awful sense of humour, but he knew that already.

“I try to be,” Montparnasse shoots back. “Where’s your lovely friend?”

Grantaire stops dead in his tracks and blinks. “Which one?”

“The soldier you dragged along with you last time.”

“What, _Gabriel?”_

Montparnasse grins at him like he’s the Cheshire cat. “That’s the one.”

“Oh my god, Montparnasse, _no_!”

“Why not?”

“Seriously, just don’t.”

Montparnasse actually _pouts_ at him. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“That doesn’t work on me.” _Anymore._

“Sure it doesn’t.”

“Montparnasse,” Grantaire interrupts the quite frankly undignified pouting with a tired sigh. “I need your help.”

“Interested. Listening.”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I’m going to make it seem like either that Jethro you spoke of or Michael is trying to kill me, forcing Ana-Maria to talk to me. And I need your help finding them.”

Montparnasse looks stunned, and making Montparnasse acquire any look of shock is no mean feat.

“You…”

“I need your help,” he repeats. “Please.”

“What makes you think I can help you?”

“Oh, please,” Grantaire mumbles. “This is highly dangerous, potentially illegal according to some galactic law, not to mention incredibly irresponsible. Of course I went to you for help.”

“Flattery works,” Montparnasse admits, and then he hesitates. “Are you…”

“Just lead the fucking way,” Grantaire utters sharply, and he’s not even angry with this man, this paradox of soft hair and flashing knives, and luckily, Montparnasse knows this.

 _I know you well_ , he thinks, following the tall dark shadow. _I know you too well._

They hadn’t known each other in another life though. Maybe that was why he had gone to this man for help.

Maybe it is easier, this way, to pretend that the plan is going to end happier than he thought.

But what he had said to Myriel was the truth: he has nothing to offer except for his pathetic excuse of a life.

 

 

*

 

 

He doesn’t want to think about the fact that that was all he had to offer Enjolras as well.

The difference is that this time, he’ll be the only one dying, if everything goes according to plan.

The difference is that, this time, Enjolras will be safe.

He’ll do anything to keep Enjolras safe.

 

*

 

Fantine tells Cosette.

He had hoped the mother-daughter reunion would take their minds off things, but seeing as Fantine is…well, like him in this grand scheme of things, she also knows a lot of the same things that he currently does.

And she tells Cosette.

And Cosette decides to stop him.

Which is probably a sensible notion, considering.

It just doesn’t quite turn out that way.

 

*

 

“It’s through here,” Montparnasse whispers, and it’s an old abandoned _theatre,_ of all fucking things, that they’re currently sneaking into. Grantaire feels very _Mission Impossible_. And he doesn’t even like Tom Cruise.

“This is a lame place for an HQ,” Grantaire comments, and his voice may be carrying a bit too loudly, but luckily it doesn’t seem to alert anyone: Montparnasse glares, and he shrugs in a sort-of apologetic gesture.

The plan is for him to come in banging and shouting anyway. He wants them to… well. Cause bodily harm. They’re not having tea and biscuits.

“Is that Jethro?” Grantaire asks, remembering to whisper this time: he’s caught a glimpse of a man, walking around the corner.

“No. That’s that other guy’s brother,” Montparnasse. “The one you were with. He shot him.”

Naveen’s brother. The man had mentioned that they weren’t exactly friends.

Grantaire wonders, idly, if Naveen is ever going to come back. If maybe he’ll see him one day.

Then he remembers what exactly it is he’s planning.

He is never going to see anyone else again.

“Thank-you, Montparnasse,” he mumbles. “I can take it from here.”

Montparnasse stares at him for a short moment: almost as if he wants to say something.

 _Good luck_ , Grantaire thinks, but that probably isn’t wise to say in a situation like this. _Cheer up, mate!_ Probably not either.

_Thank-you._

No. Not from Montparnasse.

“You’re welcome,” the other man says then, and ah. Yes.

He leaves, and Grantaire is alone, heart pounding in his chest. He is scared, very scared, much more scared than he expected.

This isn’t, after all, the first time he’s knowingly walked to his death. Somehow, he’d rather expected the second time to be easier.

No such luck.

He walks down the hallway, and doesn’t bother to hide the sound of his footsteps this time: there is no need. He wants them to know he’s here.

Grantaire’s just about to round the corner, when the door behind him _smashes_ open (there is no other word for it), and Bahorel tackles him to the ground.

“SHIT!”

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” the other man is shouting, but Grantaire is ignoring him, in favour of the other shapes and shadows (people he knows), running through the door, and hurried footsteps from the other room.

He doesn’t know what his friends are thinking, barging in here like this. Maybe they don’t know. But they have to know. Or they wouldn’t have stopped him.

Enjolras has moved past him, he realises. Enjolras is headed for a group of men that are intent on killing them all.

“Shit, let go of me,” he’s tipped Bahorel off him with surprising ease, and he gets up, somehow – the world is tilted.

And he runs, and thinks _Enjolras is standing in front of a firing squad._

He hadn’t slept through it this time. He’d tried to be brave.

He’d been brave for all of them, instead of a coward.

Turns out heroics get you nothing.

Ten shots ring out before the others have escaped, and only two of them were from the gun in Jehan’s hands, and Cosette is screaming and someone is yelling, and Grantaire thinks it’s him. He’s pretty sure he’s screaming as well.

 _Stop_ , he wants to say. _Stop, I am one of them._

_Stop, this is my fault._

He tries this time, anyway, and the colours blend and blur until he isn’t even in this century anymore, and he tries to get there, like he did last time, but the life has already left Enjolras’ eyes when he stands by his side.

 

 

*

 

_“Enjolras,” Jehan says, and his waistcoat had been a ghastly colour, Grantaire remembers, his hat tilted slightly to the side. “Enjolras, this is Grantaire. He is the artist I spoke of.”_

_The man before him raises his head, stray curls escaping the loose bonds he has pulled it back in. He blinks, and his eyes are not blue or grey but blending, in-between, and Grantaire wants to catch all the colours swimming there, and paint them until he has them on canvas and not just his flighty, unreliable memories._

_“Pleasure,” he says, and reaches out his hand, and it burns when Grantaire takes it. His eyes flicker down to it, to the scars and callouses on his own, and thinks,_ do not be harsh. You might end me.

_“So you’re the alleged saviour,” he says, lightly, and cannot help but smile._

_The man – Enjolras – does not take offense like he had expected him to._

_“No,” he says. “I am not.”_

_It is rather hard to save anyone when you are lying in a pool of your own blood, Grantaire will think, later. Much later._

_“We’ll see,” Grantaire says, and lets go of his hand._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This part is dedicated to no-one, because I think those this story is usually dedicated to already want to kill me (hugs and kisses to Martina, Jess and Hath)
> 
> A large part of this was some of the first scenarios that popped into my head before I even started writing. I never thought I’d actually get this far. Not very long to go now, before the series is finished.
> 
> I’d like to repeat: its not done yet. Anything can happen, right?
> 
> [hides]


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